#{ silence writes }

[thiscrimsonsoul]

How much time do you spend thinking about a reply before you sit down to type?

Are you proficient in any language outside of your native tongue? do you write characters that speak multiple languages?

Do you proofread / edit as you write or do you just wing it and save editing for last?

When roleplaying, do you pace yourself when answering replies or do you like to write for them as soon as you can?

Do you reply to threads you have the most inspiration for first or do you work on them in the order in which you received them?

What is your average length / word count regarding roleplay replies? does the length of your partner’s replies matter or is important to you?

What is your limit for how many active threads you can handle at one time?

Are you more comfortable writing in private or public spaces? Why or why not?

Do you have a routine that helps you prepare to work on your writing? 

Between mobile or desktop version, which do you prefer regarding writing drabbles or roleplay replies?

When it comes to replies do you trim your posts? Does it bother you when others don’t trim their own replies? Is trimming not a problem at all?

Have you ever had a roleplay partner who helped you to improve something about your own writing quality?

If a reply isn’t coming easily do you draft it for later, delete and start over, chat with your writing partner for help, or something else?

Are there any writing elements that you sometimes find difficult? Monologues, character engagement, setting, progression, dialogue, other?

What subjects / genres do you find yourself becoming the most passionate about when you’re writing?

Does fatigue affect your ability to write or do you always have energy for the grind?

Are there any genres that you will not write or avoid writing?

Are there any writing habits others may have that you find frustrating or exhausting?

Are you comfortable asking your writing partner to correct something in their reply if they got a detail incorrect?

When working on replies or drabbles, do you prefer a desktop keyboard, a laptop, typing on mobile, or other accessibility methods?

{out of paprikash} OMG you sent almost the entire meme! O_O Alrighty then, here we go! XD Below the cut for length...

How much time do you spend thinking about a reply before you sit down to type?

It realy depends on what muse I'm writing, what the thread is about, and what's going on at the time in the thread. If it's something very simple like fluff and it's a muse that comes to be very easily, then I won't need much time to think at all, especially if the replies I'm writing are on the shorter side. But if I'm writing a very complex muse (e.g. Vision, Vincent, sometimes Tony), it's a long and detailed thread, and I'm writing about political intrigue or intricate technology or anything super complex, then yeah I'll sit on it for a while to kindof mull over what I want to write. It's the difference between replying as soon as I get it (whenever that blog is scheduled again), and maybe letting it sit for a week or two while I ponder things.

Are you proficient in any language outside of your native tongue? do you write characters that speak multiple languages?

I have a basic proficiency in German and Japanese. I studied German in high school and college and Japanese in just college. But unfortunately I don't write any muses who speak those languages, haha. As far as languages I have written in... I created my own fictional language for an original race I made when writing one of my novels, but I never used it on this site, just in original writing and for D&D purposes. I sometimes will try to incorporate some Arabic for Ardeth or Spanish for Carlos, but I don't overdo it because I know nothing about those languages and I don't trust G.oogle T.ranslate, so I don't want to make mistakes and risk offending anyone. Funnily enough, the muse I've written in a different language for the most is Leeloo using her fictional Divinian language, haha. I have a Divinian lexicon that I downloaded which is the same that they actually used for the movie as developed by the director, and I've read the director's notes on how the grammar functions in the language. It's... interesting to navigate, but once you kindof figure out how the grammar and everything works, you can kindof function in it well enough to make it seem at least halfway legit. And since it's fictional, I won't offend anyone if I make a mistake haha.

Do you proofread / edit as you write or do you just wing it and save editing for last?

Yes? Haha. I edit as I go, rereading sentences and paragraphs when I finish them, and then once I finish the entire reply, I'll read through it again. That's just how I roll because that's how I used to edit when I wrote my books, so I just got into that kind of frequent editing habit. It's a wonder, then, with all this editing, that I have so many freaking typos in my replies. XD

When roleplaying, do you pace yourself when answering replies or do you like to write for them as soon as you can?

It really depends on the muse and how much free time I have. Generally speaking I try to get to things that are time sensitive first, like asks I was just sent, things to do with holidays or certain events, or things that maybe just won't be relevant or doable if I wait a long time to reply to them. After that, I try to bounce around and do a little bit for as many people as I can so that everyone gets a turn. This... doesn't always work on some blogs (like Wanda's, unfortunately) where I have so may writing partners that I can't get to everybody every week. Other than that, I'll just reply to whatever the muse wants to do at the time. Very rarely I will reply a bunch of times to the same thread in a night, and that's only when the muse is so strong for that thread that I need to gush-write and indulge myself, heh.

Do you reply to threads you have the most inspiration for first or do you work on them in the order in which you received them?

Oh... I actually kindof also answered this one in the question just before this. XD

What is your average length / word count regarding roleplay replies? does the length of your partner’s replies matter or is important to you?

It varies with partner and thread, honestly. I prefer writing very long and detailed threads, but not everyone does. And lately time has not always allowed for me to write the lengths I would prefer. Sometimes if I see that I'm writing a lot and my partner consistently writes very little in return, I'll scale back so that I don't overwhelm them. But generally speaking... my length will tend to mirror that of my partners' replies, only because I try to address everything that they say in their reply unless it's not needed or it's reached a natural conclusion. So my muse will react to all gestures, words, and actions of yours... if they ask questions, my muse will always answer or at least react... or if anything happens I will try to have my muse react but then also add to it to advance the story. So the more you write, the more my muse has to react to, and the more I'll write back. =)

What is your limit for how many active threads you can handle at one time?

Definitely not as many as I have right now, haha. I'm one of these people that tends to just accumulate threads and keep making new ones, and the old ones just kindof get phased out. I work best with partners that can deal with replies after weeks or months on some threads, or ones who, if they wanted to continue something old, have no problem just skipping time and making a new thread. I just end to kindof work in the present because I don't have a lot of free time and I'm on meds that makes my memory a little wonky, so sometimes I genuinely forget about older threads. I realize this isn't the best way to run rp blogs, and it has kindof gotten out of hand, but I've found several very understanding rp partners who are perfectly okay with just rolling with my chaotic disarray, haha, and somehow we still manage to have fun, which is the overall point of this hobby anyway, right? XD

Are you more comfortable writing in private or public spaces? Why or why not?

Private spaces. Because when I write, I like... leave this world, hahaha. Seriously, like... I get so inside the world, the story, my character's head, etc. that I will say their dialog out loud to make sure it sounds like something they'd say, or I'll smile or chuckle as I'm writing if something funny is going on, or I'll cry if I get really into the emotion of what I'm writing. So....... to do that in public spaces would be really embarrassing. Also I would not be very aware of my surroundings, like to watch my purse or my own safety or whatever else is going on, because I get that absorbed when I write. So yeah, private writing is better for me.

Do you have a routine that helps you prepare to work on your writing? 

Not one that I stick to, no. Usually I just decide okay, time to write, and I sit down, open the site, and start working. Sometimes if I need muse, or if I have a ton of muse and want to really soak in it, I'll put on one of my muse's movies or a movie with their FC in it, or I'll listen to music from their movies/shows. The music has to stop once I start writing though, because I tend to focus on music if it's on and I won't be able to concentrate on writing otherwise. But the movies I can leave on in the background while I write. Writing with background noise is better for me than silence.

Between mobile or desktop version, which do you prefer regarding writing drabbles or roleplay replies?

I prefer desktop, because I have a lot of problems with my eyesight, and staring at tiny little letters on a phone for hours tends to give me headaches. Also, mobile is so buggy and weird, not that the desktop version isn't, but I find it easier, quicker, and less obnoxious to deal with the setup and issues of the desktop version than the mobile version, personally.

When it comes to replies do you trim your posts? Does it bother you when others don’t trim their own replies? Is trimming not a problem at all?

I do... because I have several rp partners for whom not trimming posts is a major pet peeve and they really hate it, so for their sake, I do. Also I mean... with some of the replies I write, they really do become unwieldy at long lengths, so yeah I try to remember to trim if possible. Personally, I don't really care, long posts don't bother me at all, but as a courtesy to others who really dislike long posts or long chains of replies, I trim. =)

Have you ever had a roleplay partner who helped you to improve something about your own writing quality?

To be honest, I've been writing for about 25 years, so I've got my own style pretty well set. However, I will say that I have amazing writing partners that are always pushing me to keep up my level of vocabulary, description, sentence variation, balances between expos and dialog, things like that. Their writing is very good, therefore it pushes me to stay on their same level so that we both have a high quality writing experience, and for that I'm thankful because I don't write original writing anymore. I had some losses in my life all within the span of about eight months back in 2016-2017, and it really negatively affected me mentally and creatively. before that I would write 600-1000+ page epic fantasy novels and couldn't imagine a day going by without writing for one of my WIPs. But after that rough patch in my life, I just... weirdly lost the ability to do that. Even not only just writing novels, but short stories, fanfiction, everything just kindof stopped. I'm very sad about it, but it is what it is. RP is the only writing I do now, and... I've always identified as a writer. It's been a huge part of my life and I can't imagine not doing it at all. So for the past 6 years when I haven't been able to write original works anymore, I've been very thankful for and grateful to many of my rp writing partners for really pushing me to remain a writer and to keep up that level of creativity and productivity. So... thank you. I love you all. <3

If a reply isn’t coming easily do you draft it for later, delete and start over, chat with your writing partner for help, or something else?

If it's not coming to me easily, I might write a part of it or draft some notes about what I might want to do with it, and try again another day. If I'm really suck or I have a question, I will chat with my writing partner. But usually I can figure it out on my own, I just might need some sleep or to ponder things over music for a while.

Are there any writing elements that you sometimes find difficult? Monologues, character engagement, setting, progression, dialogue, other?

Yes, action scenes and fighting/battle scenes. I just..... I'm more of a visual person than a words person. I know. You're like buuuut you're a writer, haha. What I mean is... I tend to think visually and be inspired visually, so when I write, I'm picturing what's going on in my head. How the muses are standing, sitting, moving, gesturing, acting, etc. And sometimes I struggle with action or fight scenes because it comes out choppy or like I'm listing things instead of the writing just flowing. And then he did this, and then he moved here, and then he struck here, heh. It just... I haven't mastered the art of making combat and action sound anything other than a list of movements, and that sucks. Also.... s.mut. I just. Omg I'm so terrible at it. It comes out sounding like a bad adult film, like... hahaha, seriously, I'm just not good at making it sound classy, romantic, and creative instead of silly, crass, or again, just a play-by-play of movements instead of telling a story.

What subjects / genres do you find yourself becoming the most passionate about when you’re writing?

I really get into psychological things. My muse growing as a person, dealing with trauma, overcoming their own mental drawbacks, triggers, and traumas, etc. I find psychology fascinating, and so I tend to gravitate towards muses that have a lot of mental health issues, obstacles, or special circumstances, because I love to take them through constructive, healing, coping, therapeutic, or personal growth journeys. It's one of the most interesting things for me to write. I also really enjoy sandbox writing, which I don't get to do a lot of on this site because of how rp typically works. It's usually one on one with muses, or maybe a guest muse here and there, maybe two and two, but I really love writing a sandbox. What I mean is... you put your muse into my world with all my characters and I write everything and make a world for your character to get immersed in. Whether it's my own fictional world or a canon world from a movie or show, I love write multiple muses in that world to give you and your muse a "sandbox" feeling, kindof like when you play an RPG and your character can go anywhere and do anything and wherever they go there will be things for them to do and people for them to talk to. So it feels very open and expansive for the other person. I've done sandbox rps with my own fictional worlds with some of the muses on my multimuse blog, with the world of FFXII on Basch/Ashelia's blog, and with the world of Silent Hill, putting a muse of mine in there and you put yours in there and I write the town of SH around them. I ran a SH sandbox rp with Luther once and it was pretty cool. I'm a SH superfan and I get very into the creatures and the mythos of everything, so that's really fun for me. But a lot of this hasn't been recent, and unfortunately it didn't get very far.

Does fatigue affect your ability to write or do you always have energy for the grind?

Fatigue, my mood, anxiety, eyesight issues, etc. all affect my ability to write. And work and family drama drains me a lot too and can totally sap me of creativity. Years ago I used to have energy to write all the time, but not as much anymore.

Are there any genres that you will not write or avoid writing?

Not really? Other than anything that glorifies things I don't care for or that gets really inappropriate or uncomfortable in some way. I've shut down some anons on my other blogs who have asked questions about my muses that were really just not appropriate at all, and I refused to answer those questions. Other than that, as far as whole genres and things, I'm pretty much up for anything.

Are there any writing habits others may have that you find frustrating or exhausting?

I tend to gravitate away from people who overly punctuate and format their writing. You know, where every word is spaced out, bold, italics, bigger, smaller, colored, etc. and I just... can't make sense of it. It really distracts away from the writing and the story, and I prefer to avoid that. Having said that, if my partner really wants to do that and I like their writing and the stories we're creating, I'll deal with it.

Are you comfortable asking your writing partner to correct something in their reply if they got a detail incorrect?

Honestly, I usually just roll with it, heh. I'll change what I was going to do or retcon what I said to match so I don't embarrass them or because it's really not a big deal at all. If it is something that would really matter or that changes the story or affects my muse greatly, then yes, I will ask them to just confirm which way they wanted it or what it was supposed to be so that I know going forward.

When working on replies or drabbles, do you prefer a desktop keyboard, a laptop, typing on mobile, or other accessibility methods?

I don't have a desktop computer right now, I only have a laptop, and then my phone. Between those two, I vastly prefer my laptop keyboard. I'm old school, haha, so I grew up typing on a full-size keyboard. The laptops I get are fairly large because I need a lot of power and a bigger screen for work analyses and gaming, so the keyboard is full size. That's just what I'm used to and I'm a really fast typer, so that works for me. I get fat finger syndrome on my phone honestly, haha, and I spent more time fixing typos than actually writing if I try to use my phone for replies.

[feral-ballad]

Forugh Farrokhzad, tr. by Hasan Javadi & Susan Sallée, from Another Birth: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad; "Let us believe in the beginning of a cold season"

[Text ID: "I am naked, naked, naked / naked like the moments of silence / between the phrases of love"]

[plutoswritingplanet]

It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha x Female!Reader) pt. 2

a/n: re-uploaded cause tumblr wouldn't show it in the tags for some reason Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con, Arranged Marriage, Reader is an Atriedes, Horny Violence, and some angsty family relations (lmao)

Summary: The courting becomes more and more complicated, as both you and the Na-Baron discover something about each other.

Part.1, Part 3. Part 4.(finale)

- He's a beast.

Lady Jessica stops in her tracks, her hands sliding gently across the fabric of your nightgown. It's your Mother, that puts it out on the table next to your bed. But the person, who turns back towards you with an unreadable expression, is most definitely not her. You're talking to a Bene Gesserit sister now. A freezing chill runs up your spine, and you start picking at the skin around your fingernails, a nervous habit you've picked up a long time ago.

- Have you forgotten all that I have taught you? - she asks, turning to face you fully, in the dimly lit space of your bedroom

Subconsciously you retreat into yourself, body leaning further away from her, as if that distance might save you from whatever unpleasant revelation will most likely fall upon you. Lady Jessica takes a deep breath, her lips pulling back into an easy, soothing smile. In the past, you would look for expressions such as this, fish them out for comfort. Now, as you look upon your Mother's face, it all seems to be a trap made specifically for you.

- Men like him, beastly men, are the weakest ones - she explains, taking slow steps towards your hunched form - They need the power and the blood to feel worthy of existing, which makes them easy to manipulate. Keep them pliant under your hands like fresh dough. 

She sits beside you, your mattress dipping under her weight, and your eyes are immediately drawn to your Mother's elegant hands, folded neatly in her lap. You wish you could put your head there. Have her pull your running thoughts out with gentle caresses. A hairbrush lays abandoned on the vanity in front of you, and silently you contemplate, whether you'll ever have the opportunity to have your hair brushed by her. 

- You must find his weakness, what drives him to do what he does. And then control it.

- I don't want to control my husband - the words spill out of your lips, before you have the chance to stop them - I want to love him, to support him. To give him children he'll love, children I'll love. 

Tears fall in heavy waterfalls down your cheeks. You haven't had the luxury of a good cry since your betrothed had arrived, and it feels divine. Letting your body shake and shiver, wrecked by uninhibited sobs, as your Mother looks down upon you, torn between the two roles she must fulfill. 

The more you've thought about your situation, the more hopeless you felt. The Harkonnens will never let you see your family again, you're sure of it. You'll have to deal with all the horrors of Giedi Prime entirely on your own, with no support from your husband, no friends, no family. And your children, as they are sure to come, will be taken away from you. Thrown into the black and white, until there's no love left in them. 

The Emperror is a cruel man, you think. An execution would've been a kinder end. 

- Why did you have to make me a Daughter? - the way your voice breaks in desperation fills you with shame - Why couldn't you give Father another Son?

You know you've overstepped, as soon as the accusatory tone registers in your brain. It is far too late by then, and the hands, which just moments before you've fantasized about running through your hair, grip you tightly. Your Mother's face, a constant image of beauty, twists into something darker, something you don't recognize, and you gasp, as her dull fingernails dig into the skin of your wrist.

- Your Father has Paul - her voice is barely above a whisper, blue eyes stabbing you with the intensity of her gaze - I gave him a son, because he asked for a son. Because I loved him enough to give him one. And he can have him. He can fill him with lessons of male leadership, of short-sighted plans. You. You are my Daughter. You are mine, and I've trained you well enough to conquer this task.

A hopeless pit settles itself in the void of your stomach.

You've always known your destiny would be to marry well, to further House Atreides' legacy. And yet, somehow, there was a sliver of hope, treacherously worming itself into your brain. Your Father had Paul, the perfect heir. Surely, he could send him off for the greater good and leave you to your own devices. Let you find someone to care for you, someone you'd do anything for. The thought sits in the pit of your stomach, turning your insides in shame. Still, you can't shake the sinking feeling, that if the universe was kind, you would've been born a Son. 

Your Mother, or more likely, the Bene Gesserit, stands up, a cold chill filling the space where her body used to sit. She regards you once, a stern, unwavering gaze.

- Wear black tomorrow.

Perhaps, you'll die in your sleep tonight. Perhaps the universe will bring you this small mercy.

*** Perhaps you did die. 

Through the haze of dreams, you can see him. Bare, as the day he was born, body gleaming white in the darkness of your room.

You can't move, can't see his face, and when he approaches, every single one of your muscles tense. You shift under the covers, cold tendrills of fear engulfing you entirely. He comes closer, moves like a wild cat, stands at the foot of your bed. 

The need to run is overwhelming, but your body refuses to listen, as slowly, torturously slowly, he climbs on top of you, defined muscles moving under his skin in a way that reminds you of some cursed demon, rather than a man. His scent fills your nostrils, a mixture of something heady and metalic, and, like a little child scared of the dark, you try to hide your face under the covers. 

This demon version of your betrothed sits down, sculpted thighs squeezing around your sides, and with rising panic you realize, he's slowly choking the life out of you. A fitting end, a welcomed one. Perhaps it would be better to die right now, before you discover what atrocities he plans to commit on your body and mind, after you're wedded. 

Then, his hand reaches behind his back, full lips pull upwards, exposing blackened out teeth. You barely register the glint of his sword, not until he holds it high up, above his hand. You're not allowed a moment to wallow in your confusion, as your future husband brings the weapon down, sinking it with brutal force into your beating heart.

You awake screaming.

***

In the morning, you pull a black tunic over your head, remnants of your dream clinging to you like an unwanted shadow. 

Every move of the silky fabric against your skin feels like a small defeat, and with your head hung low, you make your way towards the dining hall. Truly, you're not hungry, stomach turning and twisting, a steady presence of nerves keeping your body on edge. Your attendance is required however, such are customs, and it is entirely too eaarly for another lecture about your behaviour. 

As you enter the room, your mask of tired indifference slips just for a second, a mixture of fear and anger flickering in, and out of existence.

 There, opposite of your Father you can see him. Your future husband, the love of your miserable, ending life. Slow horror washes over you, as you suddenly realize that this demonic, otherwordly version of him, which visited you in your nightmares is just how he looks. He greets you with a polite inclination of his smooth head, and you consider not showing any outward sign of repulsion, a small victory on your part. Your Mother doesn't think so, but you dodge her sharp eyes in favor of greeting your brother.

It doesn't go unnoticed, the way Feyd Rautha's eyes drink in greedily the sight of you embracing Paul. His gaze lingers on your smile, and he raises his cup to his lips, scrunching his nose ever so slightly at the unfamiliar drink he's been offered. You want to ask, if they have coffee on Giedi Prime, but the question is forcefully swallowed down. You will not talk to this man. He will never know anything more than contempt from you. Curse your Mother's words, you'll fight this battle every day, on your own, if you have to. 

- My Daughter will show you around the training barracks after breakfast - Duke Leto announces, and you freeze with a cup of coffee half-way to your lips.

- Will I? - you ask, trying to control the edge in your voice. 

- Na-Baron has made inquires about a place to train - your Father explains, giving you a meaningful side eye - You'll accompany him. 

The coffee tastes like rot in your mouth, and you place your cup down with a note of finality. You won't look at him, you don't have to. That knowing smirk could be felt through the very particles flowing in the air, every single one laughing at your predicament. 

Despite your best efforts, the breakfast comes to an end, your family slowly rising to attend to their duties. Your Father, ever the cordial man, bids his farewells to the unwelcomed guest. Your Mother does the same, albeit sounding more honest. Paul lingers as long as Lady Jessica allows him, until he is forced to retreat by a slender hand tugging mercilessly on his elbow. A gesture both of you know intimately from your childhoods. 

Before you know it, you're left alone with the pale imitation of a man. He arises slowly from his seat, smoothly making his way towards you, each of his footsteps echoing in the dining room. 

- Shall we, my Lady? 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his offered hand, like a white spider living just outside of your vision. With a shudder, you slip out of your chair, trying very hard not to touch him, and failing immediately, when his broad chest nearly pushes you back into your seat. 

He smells nice, your brain betrays you, the scent bringing back images from your night terror, causing an involuntary shiver to run up your spine. With averted gaze, you turn to leave, ignoring his still extended hand. He follows you like a shadow, catching up to you in no time, as you slide through the corridors of the Palace. It's uncomfortable, to say the least, walking with him behind your back. His eyes bear into you, a prickly feeling at the base of your neck making you roll your shoulders.

It follows you, as he follows, right to the very destination. All in blessed silence, a small miracle to save this already dreadful morning.

The men, launging about at the training barracks freeze in their spots, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest, when Duncan Idaho catches your eyes. His skin has a beautiful, warm tone, highlighted by the morning sun flowing into the room through the windows. You nod, he nods back, an unspoken understanding blooming between the two of you. There could be no suspicion of any closer bond, lest this engagement would be called off. A result, perhaps favorable to you personally, but your family would never live down the shame. And you would never jeopardize Paul's future, no matter how hollow yours looked.

- You have a warrior's body - your betrothed comments, as he inspects the blades laid out on a small table - Do you train here as well?

Small talk, you could do small talk. With a sigh, you tear your gaze away from Duncan, and turn to the Harkonnen, forcing something resembling a polite smile to bloom onto your features. 

- Yes, I do - you answer curtly, eyes falling onto elegant, white fingers, sliding over a shiny metal blade. 

- It is not a common practice here, is it? - he looks at you, eyes gliding over your stature - Women being trained to fight?

Suddenly very much aware of your body, you cross your arms on your chest, hugging yourself tightly. You don't miss the way his gaze seems to linger on the low neckline of your tunic, and with bitterness on your tongue you wonder, has this man ever felt ashamed. 

- Not common, but it does happen - your voice betrays your emotions, a sharp edge settling over your tone, causing the man to arch an eyebrow.

Finally, he settles onto a chosen blade, bringing it up to the light and with laser focus observing the way particles dance on the steel surface. Then, he looks back at you, catching you in the act of observing the prominent, lean muscles on his neck. You ignore the knowing smirk and will your blushing cheeks to suddenly become devoid of color.

They don't, of course, and you scurry to the side of the table, to fiddle with the rest of the weaponry. Your favorite training blade is there, and instinctually, your hand reaches for it. 

- Train with me.

The request catches you off guard, and you shoot him a questioning look, one he deflects with a nonchalant shrug. 

Your muscles flinch, as you drag your hand back from the blade. 

- It would hardly be appropriate - you counter, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your tunic.

To that, he tilts his head, light eyes studying you for a longer moment, until you truly feel uncomfortable under such scrutiny. 

- And suddenly you're worried about what the court says? - he cuts you off, before you have the chance to ask, just what exactly does he mean by that - Perhaps you're too soft to fight me.

- I know what you're doing - you point an accusatory finger at his chest, and the man smiles, blackened teeth peaking between his full lips.

- And what am I doing? - it's hard to ignore the teasing timbre in his voice, and you swallow thickly.

- You're trying to get under my skin.

Shivering under the expected cruel glint in his eye, as another, most likely filthy innuendo purses his lips, you turn to him fully, a serious expression on your features.

- I've seen you fight, Na-Baron - his jaw tightens at the sound of your voice curling around his title - I know you're a force to be reckoned with, I'm not scared to admit that.

He straightens, regards you with furrowed brows for a longer second, until, yet again you start to fidget under his gaze.

- Perhaps then, you're scared you'll hurt me - the mere idea is so preposterous, your head snaps in his direction - If I had known, you liked me that much...

- That is entirely not true, and you know it - you deflect again, although annoyance begins to paint your voice.

Then, his hand shoots out, gripping your arm and pulling you closer. Air seems to thicken around you, as you look up at him, with surprise quickly morphing into outrage. His breath mingles with yours, and you can't seem to look away from his eyes, pupils nearly drowned in the overwhelming blue of his irises.

- Stop hiding, my viper. Fight me.

The command, spoken in a harsh whisper just shy of your lips, turns your insides into molasses. 

His taller form leans down to tower over yours, an intense expression settling over his sharp features. Close to excitement, much too close to desire, even closer to a murderous curiosity. Your throat feels entirely too dry, and before you can stop yourself, you swallow thickly, tongue darting out to lick your lips. His eyes snap almost immediately downwards, and your heart stops beating. You can't see anymore blue in his irises, only black. Darkness covers his eyes reflecting his thoughts, and you feel like you have to flee right now, before something terrible happens to you. 

So you do just that. Ripping yourself away from his closeness, you return to the table, hand finding your chosen blade without really looking. 

Another flash of black teeth, as the Na-Baron realizes what you're doing, and the both of you enable the shields surrounding your bodies. 

The gathered soldiers watch on, as you march towards the center of the room, determination filling every step to the brim. Duncan gives you a look, which you choose to ignore. You can't think about him now, not when you have your honor to defend against this Harkonnen monster of a man. 

Feyd Rautha rolls his shoulders, discards the thin fabric of his dress shirt, and once again you are stricken with his almost god-like physique. The blade looks like an extension of his hand, as he weighs it and slashes the air in front of him. Then, he fixes you with a challenging expression, as if he expects you to do the same, to try and best him at some shameless display.

You decide to keep your clothes on, blade held high, ready to strike. 

He jumps from one leg to another, and immediately an orchestra of alarm bells rings out in your brain. Should a man really be this excited at the prospect of fighting his future wife? Should you be this excited? Questions without answers, and before any of you make a move, another one absent-midedly floats to the surface. Just how much can you hurt each other, before the wedding is concluded? How much you'll inevitably hurt each other after?

The darkness he has brought on the ship with him must be contagious, because despite your better judgement, you smile. A sharp smirk, that makes your eyes look less like a human and more like a wild animal. And he drinks it all in, as he begins to circle you.

You'd never show him your back, never again. He's a tried and true predator, the only instinct he has, is a killer one. A fact you quickly get aquatinted with, as he unleashes a series of lightning fast strikes your way. 

Immediately you realize, that small show of cruelty he organized at your grandfather's theatre was nothing, compared to what he could truly do. And still, you suspect he's holding back, as you barely dodge a nasty stab, right under your ribs. Another one is blocked against your sheild, and before you have a chance to collect yourself, third one sends you back a couple of steps. 

He doesn't let you get away, with confident steps pushing you further and further out of the center of the training floor.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Duncan Idaho stand up from his place. Thinking back to your last training session, you shudder bitterly. "Never fight in anger" is easy to say, when you're not forced to marry, bed and sunsequently give children to the man you're fighting. 

Panting and sweating, you give Feyd Rautha your all, twirling in place, sliding on your feet. A different kind of choreography, which seems to work surprisingly well, with his almost animalistic force. Gurney taught you how to be powerful, how to land strikes which were as effective, as they were cunning. Duncan, on the other hand, taught you how to dance. So that's what you do.

Finally, you manage to grab at his free hand, locking your feet between his and bringing him closer to your blade. It stops just short of his artery, blocked by his dagger, the clash of metal reverberating through the halls. 

The smirk he gives you is beyond nasty, and forcefully, you push away from him, as if the very idea of skin to skin contact repulsed you. And it does, it truly does, especially now that adrenaline mixed with frustration boils in your head. 

- Again - you snarl his way, assuming your fighting stance.

- As my Lady commands - his voice has a natural growl to it, made even more prominent by the exertion of the fight, and he twists his body into a perversion of a curtsy.

This time you're the one to attack first, ignoring your menthor's words and relying on pure rage to guide your steps. A stab to his thigh, which he deflects with seemingly childish ease. Your tunic slips through his fingers, as you slide under his arm. Out of the corner of your eye you can see his blade, when he hides it into his belt. Confusion hits you suddenly. Was he giving up, why was he hiding his weapon? None of the questions get answered, as a foot curls itself around your ankle.

Your balance leaves you with a gasp of surprise, and soon, your back is on the floor, Feyd Rautha following closely behind. Your heated gaze meets his, as one hand wrenches the blade from your grasp and pins both your arms above your head. The other one supports his weight, as he hovers above you, light bleeding behind him in an unfitting image of a halo. 

Your chest heaves, sweat rolling down your collarbones, and the Harkonnen doesn't even try to hide the way his gaze follows a stray drop of salt, as it disappears between your breasts. 

- You fought well - he complements in a hushed tone, and you writhe desperately under his body.

The night terror rears its ugly head again, as you feel his tighs press onto your sides, almost as if he wants to shape your flesh into the imprint of his body.

- I think I prefer you like this - he whispers, face coming closer to the exposed column of your neck - You belong under me. 

That's what does it. Your face twists into an expression of equal parts disgust, and fury. You won't give him this victory, you'd rather die. Legs tangle themselves around his calves, and you use all your strength fueled by the burning need to fucking hurt him. 

The world spins, two bodies rolling on the floor, and suddenly you're on top of him, legs biting into his hip bones. While one hand supports your weight on his naked shoulder, the other finds the dagger hidden in his belt. The surprised gasp, which leaves his lips feels like music to your ears, and you don't even try to fight the awful smirk splitting your mouth.

The shield on his neck glows an angry red, as you press the tip of the blade down, right under his bobbing Adam's apple. He swallows, for just a second letting you see the mask of self confidence slip. He has quite long eyelashes, you notice, as his eyelids flutter, a low hum reverbating through his chest. Eyes that are neither blue nor completely black drink in the sight of you. The halo of your hair, the snarl on your lips, the curve of your waist, where one of his hands settle. 

Missing all of this, too enraptured by your own fury, you push the blade further down until it pricks his alabaster skin. He hisses through his blackened teeth and you want more, you want him to scream. A thin streak of red begins to flow down his neck, and God help you, it looks like art. 

His grip on your waist tightens, all five fingers digging into your flesh through the thin tunic. Feyd Rautha bares his teeth at you in a cruel smile, one that makes you question whether you're the one in control.

And then his hips roll upwards. 

A barely noticable movement, easily mistaken for a spasm of the muscles, but you know better. You can read it all from his expression, his pupils blown wide, the quickened breaths of air slipping past his lips. From the quickly hardening length pressing against your inner thigh. 

Your stomach flutters with a well known feeling, and that terrifies you more than any pain-motivated erection ever could. Because he sees it, he sees the beginning flames of desire taking root in your center, and the realization looks like ecstasy on his face. Humiliation washes through you, fills you completely. There is no awkward blush on your face, no. All you feel is white, freezing terror, as all your defences seem to crumble all at once.

Like a scared animal, you're off of him in a split-second, and he doesn't chase you, as you all but run from the training barracks. Doesn't have to, he already has everything he needs. 

[burntblueberrywaffles]

Yes another poll I love gathering data about random stuff

If more than one applies, you can choose the one you use the most often, or elaborate in the tags lol

[haleyincarnate]

Inspired by a submission sent to @geloyconcepcion on Instagram ✨

[beccawise7]

You don't always need to fix what's troubling her.

Sometimes, she simply needs your presence.

Your scent. Your whispers of reassurance in her ear. Your arms around her.

Sometimes... all she needs is you to calm her racing thoughts.

~beccawise7 💜🖤

[mournfulroses]

Albert Camus, from a diary entry featured in Notebooks, 1935-1942

[chamerionwrites]

Also idk but I feel it is important, for reasons of genre understanding, to recognize that good old fashioned murder is like the least violent thing anybody ever does in a proper spy story

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

Springtime Caresses

IV. Dadstarion, but he's only just figuring that one out.

Good things were happening to Astarion, at least on occasion. It had taken him years to accept that, to trust that his luck wasn’t about to run out at any given moment; to believe that he was worthy of whatever goodness came his way. And things were good, so very good—the Elven woman trancing in his arms was all the proof he needed, was she not? It was thanks to her magic woven into the protective canvas of their tent that he could feel the late morning sun warm his skin. It was her graceful body entangled with his that anchored him to a present worth living, having him excited for the future. It was her heartbeat echoing through his hollow bones that called him back from unwanted dreams, filling the refuge that was their worn tent with the only sound of life that truly mattered to him. It was his favourite melody in all the realms, one he could pick out in the densest of crowds; a tune he knew by his undead heart. And that was why he was still lying awake long past dawn today, holding his breath, listening. Wondering.

What was this faint, fluttering sound rippling through him where Tav’s bare chest pressed against his own?

For nearly half a century Tav’s heart had been singing for Astarion by now, and he took great pride and care in memorising each of her songs. Every piece in his collection was a personal favourite: the steady hum accompanying peaceful nights spent in each other's arms. The giddy pulsing of excitement whenever they were run out of town for a misdeed they might or might not have committed. The urgent pounding of her heart racing him through the throes of passion…But this strange off-tune beat disturbing his rest now, that one was odd—that one was new.

Astarion couldn’t say when he’d first noticed the unfamiliar sound. It might have been there all night, perhaps even longer; it mingled so subtly with his beloved’s heartbeat that it was easy enough to miss—especially when he’d been distracted by all those divine seductions Tav’s body offered him well into the early morning hours. She had tasted so intoxicatingly sweet with his fangs and cock buried deep inside her; the heels of her feet digging into the small of his back, greedily drawing him closer—deeper—as her blood rushed through him, and her legs and cunt had made the framework that was his entire world. It was ridiculously easy for him to lose himself in Tav. She was the one constant in his existence, the dance to which he could anticipate every next move. But now that his hunger for her was sated for the night, and Tav’s heartbeat had calmed into the gentle whisper of slumber, this novel symphony was deafening in Astarion’s sensitive ears. He wet his lips that still tasted of sweet, darling Tav.

Once, Astarion had been very good at ignoring things. It had been a skill long honed, perfected over centuries—how easily had he been able to just close his eyes, turn his back on the ignorant fools sleeping next to him? It had been such a well-rehearsed dance; him knowing what horrors were about to unfold, how irrevocably a life would change. But, night after night, it hadn’t been his life-changing, and so it had been of no consequence to him. Now, though, it was Tav he watched over as she tranced; whom he’d embraced for so many nights and yet not nearly enough. It was her soft, warm breath caressing his skin, making it impossible for him to unhear, let alone ignore, that ominous sound entrancing him. The moment Astarion had acknowledged the lingering change, it had settled in the thus far unoccupied space between him and his beloved. Already, Astarion could feel it deep in his bones—a shift in his world—and for the first time in many many years, he did not quite know what beat he was to dance to. And so the vampire spawn did what he was wont to do: He watched the even rise and fall of Tav’s bosom, filling his empty lungs with air. Slowly, he breathed in and out, tried and failed imitating that melody that was undeniably Tav and yet, somehow, more.

Very slowly it dawned on Astarion, then. How hadn’t it occurred to him before? It would be impossible for him to fall into that familiar, steady rhythm of Tav’s heartbeat this morning because where there had been one heart beating against his chest for all these years, there were now undeniably two.

Astarion’s useless breath caught in his throat. They’d known it was possible; it had been the probability of it all they’d doubted. And yet, here they were. The vampire spawn stared at the elf in his arms. There had been signs, Astarion realised as he reached for the small hand resting on his ribcage, grounding himself. Now that his world was shaking, he could see all the pieces fall into place. Didn’t Tav tire untypically fast lately, while her trances kept her from him well into the evening hours? And didn’t she smell different, too; taste even sweeter? She’d been changing right under his nose, had she not? He couldn’t even recall when he’d last indulged in her moonblood as he watched a well of memories flutter behind Tav’s eyelids. Her pink lips were slightly parted, brushing the gentlest of kisses against his skin as loose strands of her lustrous hair tickled his chin. She was glowing with life, and Astarion couldn’t help but wonder: did she know? Because, to him, it was suddenly clear as day that something had come alive between them—or rather half-alive, Astarion supposed.

Or half-dead, a mean little voice countered inside his head. 

Careful not to rouse his beloved from her trance, Astarion slowly untangled himself from Tav’s embrace, feeling at once cold at the absence of her touch. Kneeling next to her, Astarion gently placed Tav’s head on the pillow, brushed a stray lock from the face he could recognise blind. Crimson eyes wandered over Tav’s slight form—lean limbs and restless hands; a traveller’s body that rarely saw the sun. A body that could be better fed and more well rested. A body that could be stronger—a vessel that needed to be stronger for the unnatural presence it held. Deep within him, in a place that had lain dormant for many blissful years, Astarion could feel fear and shame settle. Nothing good tended to come of a union made flesh between mortals and monsters. There was a reason dhampirs were this rare; there was a reason mothers to dhampir children were even rarer. The strain of bearing life from death was too great—and it was entirely Astarion’s fault. But what was he to do? Could anything be done about this…predicament, now? All Astarion knew was that he couldn’t bear seeing Tav suffer; wasn’t she paying such a high price for his affliction already?

But Tav didn’t look like she was suffering, not now and not ever. Astarion scoffed at the discontented frown carved between her eyebrows as her hand searched blindly for his, only relaxing when he laced his cold fingers with hers. It was true, Tav was a little pale and her body bore all the signs of a future that had thus far been unwritten. And yet, now that Astarion bent over her, he could see the slight swell of her belly, the firmness of her breasts and recognise them for what they were. Tav was nothing if not resilient, always believing—knowing—that good things came their way. Had she ever given him reason to doubt her?

Carefully, Astarion rested his cheek below Tav’s navel, and there it was—the epicentre of their future, fluttering against his ear as if Tav had swallowed a little bird. He listened closely to the two heartbeats and tried to learn the intricacies of this new song. The sharp ends of Astarion’s fangs pierced his lower lip as he smiled widely against Tav’s belly. For nearly fifty years he and Tav had made love, and now love had eventually made something in return. But it had only just begun, hadn’t it? There was much to consider. They would have to settle down somewhere; being out in the wilderness, going town to town—it wouldn’t do any longer. They needed a safe place where Tav could gather as much strength as possible, a place where their child could thrive. They needed a home. Everything else would fall into place, surely…

There was another change in Tav’s heartbeat, signalling that she’d woken. It only took a second for her free hand to ghost over Astarion’s arm, his shoulders and the nape of his neck before it found its way into his dishevelled curls.

“What are you smiling about?” Tav asked, a sleepy curiosity laced in her voice that made Astarion look up at her face. He wondered again whether she knew of that second heart beating inside her or not, but Tav was a shit liar, and worse at keeping secrets—unlike Astarion.

He considered her a moment longer before he lifted his head off her middle and laid back beside her. Tav hummed contently as he pulled her against him, resuming their earlier position as if nothing had changed. “Just about how pathetically in love I am with you, and how my love for you only grows each day.” 

“Oh, just the usual then,” Tav yawned against his chest, mirroring his smile. “Nothing grand.”

She didn’t know, Astarion was sure of it. And he wouldn’t say anything, not at all. Tav would notice the change in herself soon enough, but for now, it was their secret—Astarion and the little life’s he’d discovered within her. “Nothing grand at all, my dear. Nothing grand at all.”

A good thing was happening to him; he could hear and taste it, feel it grow right there where Tav’s bare chest pressed against his—but who was he to keep that to himself?

“Darling,” Astarion blurted out. “How do you like Baldur’s Gate around…let’s say early Spring, I suppose?”

more Dadstarion content

tag list: @spacebarbarianweird @bardic-inspo @kawaiiusagichansan @darlingxdragon @herautumnmorningelegance  

@ayselluna @chonkercatto  @anukulee  @roguishcat @littlejuicebox

[theminecraftbee]

if you'll forgive the rare mention of shipping from me. okay. so my brain LOVES generating weird, slightly fucked-up aus. and so. okay. sometimes i think about the joke that jimmy is the oblivious protagonist to a harem anime or a dating game in most of his smps. which is obviously a fandom joke more than anything else but like, he DOES have a bunch of these ships. and then i ALSO think about the sometimes-valid, sometimes-invalid way people complain about shipping warping his and other people's characters. (for the record that's just how fandom works shipping or not shipping i take a neutral stance on this, it's just important for the au idea.)

so my brain came up with: the jimmy dating sim au. in which jimmy suddenly wakes up and his life is a dating sim. and at first he's... very very jimmy about it. he preens. he LOVES the fact the world suddenly seems to revolve around him. it's GREAT. he can see dialogue options and he still somehow sounds like an idiot when he talks to people but that's fine because he still chooses the BEST OPTIONS. he's doing GREAT. this is the BEST THING THAT'S EVER--

although. hm. it's... a little weird the world is revolving around him? grian and joel aren't being mean enough actually, which seems like a silly thing to complain about, but like, look, he likes it when people are mean. and tango is silly and sweet but he's--he's not normally that focused on jimmy. he's a project guy. and scott is--look, it's weird he's not flirting with anyone else, right? like, that's weird? and, and okay, he's... not sure how to name what's going on with fwhip but there's not enough animosity, and whatever martyn is doing is like, look, jimmy's used to being shot down more on this one, and--

and once jimmy starts seeing it he can't stop seeing it. the world's warped around him. he's the main character in a dating game. every time he picks an option that makes one of his friends (his friends!) like him more, it's like another little piece of their personality is chipped off of them. and as much as he loves being the center of attention, he misses being mocked. he misses people paying attention to other things. he misses the bits that are being sanded off. he doesn't want to be the one to break his friends. he misses the relationships they had, sharp edges and all, because goddammit, he likes that kind of relationship.

but he doesn't know how to stop it.

he doesn't know how long he can go down someone's route before the changes get irreversible.

and so jimmy sets out on a journey to figure out how to break the dating simulator he seems to have gotten stuck in and get his friends back to normal. before it's too late.

ANYWAY IF I HAD TIME AND/OR MORE EXPERIENCE WITH VISUAL NOVEL GAME ENGINES IMAGINE--

[feral-ballad]

Jane Hirshfield, from The Beauty: Poems; “I wanted only a little”

[Text ID: “I wanted, I thought, only a little, / two teaspoons of silence—“]

[thekinglemingle]

Proposal for Big Finish: David Tennant and Alex Kingston low stakes adventure, with the twist being that it's retired Fourteen not Ten and he can't let River realise that he knows their whole deal. He so desperately wants to tell her how much he misses her, but he can't spoil the existence of the second regeneration cycle and ruin Twelve's surprise.

And that's why River thinks she's seen Ten much older than he was in the library.

[ruhlare]

[infiniteglitterfall]

I guess this might be why the UK seemed to go so antisemitic so quickly

I'm researching the 1947 pogroms in the UK. (Actually, I'm researching all the pogroms and massacres of Jews in the past 200 years. Which today led me to discover that there were pogroms in the UK in 1947.)

From an article on "The Postwar Revival of British Fascism," all emphasis mine:

Given the rising antisemitism and widespread ignorance about Zionism [in the UK in 1947], fascists were easily able to conflate Zionist paramilitary attacks with Judaism in their speeches, meaning British Jews came to be seen as complicit in violence in Palestine.

Bertrand Duke Pile, a key member of Hamm’s League, informed a cheering crowd that “the Jews have no right to Palestine and the Jews have no right to the power which they hold in this country of ours.” Denouncing Zionism as a way to introduce a wider domestic antisemitic stance was common to many speakers at fascist events and rallies. Fascists hid their ideology and ideological antisemitism behind the rhetorical facade of preaching against paramilitary violence in Palestine.

One of the league’s speakers called for retribution against “the Jews” for the death of British soldiers in Palestine. This was, he told his audience, hardly an antisemitic expression. “Is it antisemitism to denounce the murderers of your own flesh and blood in Palestine?” he asked his audience. Many audience members, fascist or not, may well have felt the speaker had a point. ...[The photo of two British sergeants hanged by the Irgun in retaliation for the Brits hanging three of their members] promptly made numerous appearances at fascist meetings, often attached to the speaker’s platform. In at least one meeting, several British soldiers on leave from serving in Palestine attended Hamm’s speech, giving further legitimacy to his remarks. And with soldiers and policemen in Palestine showing increasing signs of overt antisemitism as a result of their experiences, the director of public prosecutions warned that the fascists might receive a steady stream of new recruits.

MI5, the U.K. domestic security service, noted with some alarm that “as a general rule, the crowd is now sympathetic and even spontaneously enthusiastic.” Opposition, it was noted in the same Home Office Bulletin of 1947, “is only met when there is an organized group of Jews or Communists in the audience.”

The major opposition came from the 43 Group, formed by the British-Jewish ex-paratrooper Gerry Flamberg and his friends in September 1946 to fight the fascists using the only language they felt fascists understood — violence. The group disrupted fascist meetings for two purposes: to get them shut down by the police for disorder, and to discourage attendance in the future by doling out beatings with fists and blunt instruments. By the summer of 1947, the group had around 500 active members who took part in such activities. Among these was a young hairdresser by the name of Vidal Sassoon, who would often turn up armed with his hairdressing scissors.

The 43 Group had considerable success with these actions, but public anger was spreading faster than they could counter the hate that accompanied it. The deaths of Martin and Paice had touched a nerve with the populace. On Aug. 1, 1947, the beginning of the bank holiday weekend and two days after the deaths of the sergeants, anti-Jewish rioting began in Liverpool. The violence lasted for five days. Across the country, the scene was repeated: London, Manchester, Hull, Brighton and Glasgow all saw widespread violence. Isolated instances were also recorded in Plymouth, Birmingham, Cardiff, Swansea, Newcastle and Davenport. Elsewhere, antisemitic graffiti and threatening phone calls to Jewish places of worship stood in for physical violence. Jewish-owned shops had their windows smashed, Jewish homes were targeted, an attempt was made to burn down Liverpool Crown Street Synagogue while a wooden synagogue in Glasgow was set alight. In a handful of cases, individuals were personally intimidated or assaulted. A Jewish man was threatened with a pistol in Northampton and an empty mine was placed in a Jewish-owned tailor shop in Davenport.

And an important addendum:

I've read a whole bunch of articles about the pogroms in Liverpool, Manchester, Salford, Eccles, Glasgow, etc.

Not one of them has mentioned that the Irgun, though clearly a terrorist group, was formed in response to 18 years of openly antisemitic terrorism, including multiple incredibly violent massacres. Or that it consistently acted in response to the murders of Jewish civilians, not on the offensive. Or that at this point, militant Arab Nationalist groups with volunteers and arms from the Arab League countries had been attacking Jewish and mixed Arab-Jewish neighborhoods for months.

I just think the "Jewish militants had been attacking the British occupiers" angle is incredibly Anglocentric.

Yeah, they were attacking the British occupiers. But also, that's barely the tip of the iceberg.

Everyone involved hated the Brits at this point. If only al-Husseini and his ilk had hated the Brits more than they hated the Jews, Britain could at least have united them by giving them a common enemy.

[mittenslikescats]

I can’t even

Some fucker changed it because ‘oh no Ninjago can’t possibly have a gay relationship’ even though there’s evidence in the SHOW and not to mention several ppl working on the show support these 2 as a ship.

And don’t tell me that ‘they’re just trying to make sure the information is factual’ cus on that same exact page they have Nya listed as one of Cole’s former love interest even though it’s been confirmed by Tommy Andersen that Cole never liked Nya romantically and that he was just confused at the sudden attention she was giving him.

But of course some homophobe probably got upset at seeing Geo being a possible love interest for Cole. I sometimes cannot with this wiki, like you have your canon straight ships, you got Jaya, Kailor, Pixane, Llokita just let us have this one gay ship be canon. It’s not going to ruin Cole’s character if he ends up in a romantic relationship with Geo. When Kai and Skylor got together did that suddenly ruin Kai’s personality? No and it would be the same for Cole.

It’s honestly tiring having to fight for queer representation in Ninjago and it doesn’t make it easier having homophobes trying to bash anyone who supports a queer ship or headcanons a character as queer in this fandom.

Also while on topic I actually hate how ppl will try to use Vania as an excuse to be homophobic. Like when a homophobe goes on about how ‘Cole isn’t gay’ they’ll always bring up Vania (and Nya at times too) like it’s been confirmed that Cole and Vania are just friends yet people still treat the ship as canon (u can totally ship them if u want btw) and use Vania as an excuse to homophobic. Like don’t you dare bring my girl into this

I’m honestly disappointed in the ninjago wiki, I thought people there would be more open to the idea of Cole and Geo being a canon couple. But I guess that’s just wishful thinking.